


Dreams

by Evillen, QDS



Category: Blitz
Genre: Angst, Dreams, M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QDS/pseuds/QDS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night Brant has the same dream. Again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/219752) by [Evillen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen). 



> If you do like it, leave your comments/kudos at the original fic rather than here so Evillen sees them. :) As always, I translate via Google Translator and other online means, and also from the help of Evillen. :)

*

In the enveloping silence of the nighttime London suburbs, the shot seems deafening. In Brant's mind one thought beats: "I'm too late." A pulse echoes in his ears, perhaps his own hurried footsteps on the stairs, and in his mouth there is a nasty taste of fear. Brant doesn't remember the last time he felt fear, absorbing everything, as if nothing were left but the endless steps, and fear. His skin is covered with sticky sweat, and when he runs onto the roof, the wind is dank and so cold that it hurts.

He is a few seconds late, and Nash is down, his arms outstretched sideways, and Blitz bends over him, apparently checking his pockets. Brant strikes Weiss, again and again, until his face becomes a bloody mess, and he falls on his side, whining softly. Brant picks up the gun and shoots Weiss in his head until there are no bullets left in the cartridge.

He throws the gun aside and kneels next to Nash. A red puddle spreads around the inspector spreads, and his gray sweater is wet with blood.

"Wanker," whispers Brant to Porter, clutching his shoulders and shaking him. "I asked you to wear a bulletproof vest, you idiot."

Brant doesn't notice the tears flowing down his cheeks. He doesn't know what this is, he didn't cry even when...dammit, never! He squeezes his fists, which should be painful – but it doesn't happen. Pain turns into a dense cover; it stops him breathing, and Brant chokes. He leans over and kisses Nash's cold lips.

"Forgive me, I should done it alone. Forgive me...forgive me...forgive..."

He picks up Nash's hand, brings it to his face and breathes on it, as if trying to warm him, to remove the deathly pallor. Of course, nothing happens. Nash is still dead.

With all his strength Brant punches the fence next to them, screaming...and wakes up.

Nash calmly snores next to him. Another nightmare about that night. Fear doesn't want to let go, and Brant shakes Nash's shoulder, needing to make sure that everything is in order, that Porter is here – alive and healthy. And annoyed.

"What is it, Brant?" Nash sleepily blinking, looking anxiously at the sergeant. "Another nightmare?"

Brant silently pulls the inspector to him and kisses him desperately, turning Nash on his back, leaning on him from above and feeling underneath him Nash's warm – living – body. That body groans unhappily, but answers with a kiss, and rubs his body against Brant's like a big cat. Brant kiss Nash cheek, leaning down to suckle on his neck and collarbone – let everyone see the bite marks, let them know that Nash belongs to him, and Brant will not share him with anyone. Even Death.

He never expected such a reaction from him to a regular nightmare. He didn't expect that Porter would become so dear to him, and what began as an ordinary partnership, based on mutual respect and good times, would grow into something so huge that he couldn't understand it.

He kisses Nash's warm lips, which somehow become cool under his touch. Brant moves back to look into Porter's eyes, but sees only frozen, lifeless pupils.

Brant wakes up. This time it's final. The apartment is dark and piercingly quiet. Again he fell asleep on the couch with a bottle of brandy in his hand. Brant rubs his face and takes a big swig from the nearly empty bottle. These dreams come every night when Brant falls asleep, or rather, when he gets as drunk as a pig. And he doesn't know which is worse: the empty reality filled with booze and pain, or dreams in which he repeatedly doesn't have time to save Nash and looks into his dead eyes. It's a vision of his own, private hell, and one that he knows is deserved.

\--  
End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [There's a gun in my hand, if it points at your head would you die for me?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/406831) by [Rara_Tan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rara_Tan/pseuds/Rara_Tan)
  * [Love after the Blitz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/828987) by [Geep10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geep10/pseuds/Geep10)




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